The Belton Estate by Anthony Trollope

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fifteen hundred pounds or, indeed, of as many pence from CaptainAylmer. During those hours of sickness in the house they had been muchthrown together, and no one could have been kinder or more gentle toher than he had been. He had come to call her Clara, as people will dowhen joined together in such duties, and had been very pleasant as wellas affectionate in his manner with her. It had seemed to her that healso wished to take upon himself the cares and love of an adoptedbrother. But as an adopted brother she would have nothing to do withhim. The two men whom she liked best in the world would assume each thewrong place; and between them both she felt that she would be leftfriendless.

On the Saturday afternoon they had both surmised how it was going to bewith Mrs Winterfield, and Captain Aylmer had told Mr Palmer that hefeared his coming on the Monday would be useless. He explained alsowhat was required, and declared that he would be at once ready to makegood the deficiency in the will Mr Palmer seemed to think that thiswould be better even than the making of a codicil in the last momentsof the lady's life; and, therefore, he and Captain Aylmer were at reston that subject.

During the greater part of the Saturday night both Clara and CaptainAylmer remained with their aunt; and once when the morning was almostthere, and the last hour was near at hand, she had said a word or twowhich both of them had understood, in which she implored her darlingFrederic to take a brother's care of Clara Amedroz. Even in that momentClara had repudiated the legacy, feeling sure in her heart thatFrederic Aylmer was aware what was the nature of the care which heought to owe, if he would consent to owe any care to her. He promisedhis aunt that he would do as she desired him, and it was impossiblethat Clara should then, aloud, repudiate the compact. But she saidnothing, merely allowing her hand to rest with his beneath the thin,dry hand of the dying woman. To her aunt, however, when for a momentthey were alone together, she showed all possible affection, withthanks and tears, and warm kisses, and prayers for forgiveness as toall those matters in which she had offended. 'My pretty one my dear,'said the old woman, raising her hand on to the head of the crouchinggirl, who was hiding her moist eyes on the bed. Never during her lifehad her aunt appeared to her in so loving a mood as now, when she wasleaving it. Then, with some eager impassioned words, in which shepronounced her ideas of what should be the religious duties of a woman,Mrs Winterfield bade farewell to her niece. After that, she had alonger interview with her nephew, and then it seemed that all worldlycares were over with her.

The Sunday was passed in all that blackness of funeral grief which isabsolutely necessary on such occasions. It cannot be said that eitherClara or Captain Aylmer were stricken with any of that agony of woewhich is produced on us by the death of those whom we have loved sowell that we cannot bring ourselves to submit to part with them. Theywere both truly sorry for their aunt, in the common parlance of theworld; but their sorrow was of that modified sort which does not numbthe heart and make the surviving sufferer feel that there never can bea remedy. Nevertheless, it demanded sad countenances, few words, andthose spoken hardly above a whisper; an absence of all amusement andalmost of all employment, and a full surrender to the trappings of woe.They two were living together without other companion in the big housesitting down together to dinner and to tea; but on this day hardly adozen words were spoken between them, and those dozen were spoken withno purport. On the Monday Captain Aylmer gave orders for the funeral,and then went away to London, undertaking to be back on the day beforethe last ceremony. Clara was rather glad that he should be gone, thoughshe feared the solitude of the big house. She was glad that he shouldbe gone, as she found it impossible to talk to him with ease toherself. She knew that he was about to assume some position asprotector or quasi guardian over her in conformity with her aunt'sexpress wish, and she was quite resolved that she would submit to nosuch guardianship from his hands. That being so, the shorter periodthere might be for any such discussion the better.

The funeral was to take place on the Saturday, and during the four daysthat intervened she received two visits from Mr Possitt. Mr Possitt wasvery discreet in what he said, and Clara was angry with herself for notallowing his words to have any avail with her. She told herself thatthey were commonplace; but she told herself, also, after his firstvisit, that she had no right to expect anything else but commonplacewords. How often are men found who can speak words on such occasionsthat are not commonplaces that really stir the soul, and bring truecomfort to the listener? The humble listener may receive comfort evenfrom commonplace words; but Clara was not humble, and rebuked herselffor her own pride. On the second occasion of his coming she didendeavour to receive him with a meek heart, and to accept what he saidwith an obedient spirit. But the struggle within her bosom was hard,and when he bade her to kneel and pray with him, she doubted for amoment between rebellion and hypocrisy. But she had determined to bemeek, and so hypocrisy carried the hour.

What would a clergyman say on such an occasion if the object of hissolicitude were to decline the offer, remarking that prayer at thatmoment did not seem to be opportune; and that, moreover, he, the personthus invited, would like, first of all, to know what was to be thespecial object of the proposed prayer, if he found that he could, atthe spur of the moment, bring himself at all into a fitting mood forthe task? Of him who would decline, without argument, the clergymanwould opine that he was simply a reprobate. Of him who would propose toaccompany an hypothetical acceptance with certain stipulations, hewould say to himself that he was a stiff-necked wrestler against grace,whose condition was worse than that of the reprobate. Men and women,conscious that they will be thus judged, submit to the hypocrisy, andgo down upon their knees unprepared, making no effort, doing nothingwhile they are there, allowing their consciences to be eased if theycan only feel themselves numbed into some ceremonial awe by theoccasion. So it was with Clara, when Mr Possitt, with easy piety, wentthrough the formula of his devotion, hardly ever having realized tohimself the fact that of all works in which man can engage himself,that of prayer is the most difficult.

'It is a sad loss to me,' said Mr Possitt, as he sat for half an hourwith Clara, after she had thus submitted herself. Mr Possitt was aweakly, pale-faced little man, who worked so hard in the parish that onevery day, Sundays included, he went to bed as tired in all his bonesas a day labourer from the fields 'a very great loss. There are notmany now who understand what a clergyman has to go through, as our dearfriend did.' If he was mindful of his two glasses of port wine onSundays, who could blame him?

'She was a very kind woman, Mr Possitt.'

'Yes, indeed and so thoughtful! That she will have an exceeding greatreward, who can doubt? Since I knew her she always lived as a saintupon earth. I suppose there's nothing known as to who will live in thishouse, Miss Amedroz?'

'Nothing I should think.'

'Captain Aylmer won't keep it in his own hands?'

'I cannot tell in the least; but as he is obliged to live in Londonbecause of Parliament, and goes to Yorkshire always in the autumn, hecan hardly want it.

'I suppose not. But it will be a sad loss a sad loss to have this houseempty. Ah I shall never forget her kindness to me. Do you know, MissAmedroz,' and as he told his little secret he became beautifullyconfidential 'do you know, she always used to send me ten guineas atChristmas to help me along. She understood, as well as any one, howhard it is for a gentleman to live on seventy pounds a year. You willnot wonder that I should feel that I've had a loss.' It is hard for agentleman to live upon seventy pounds a year; and it is very hard, too,for a lady to live upon nothing a year, which lot in life fate seemedto have in store for Miss Amedroz.

On the Friday evening Captain Aylmer came back, and Clara was in truthglad to see him. Her aunt's death had been now far enough back to admitof her telling Martha that she would not dine till Captain Aylmer hadcome, and to allow her to think somewhat of his comfort. People musteat and drink even when the grim monarch is in the house; and it is arelief when they first dare to do so with some attention to thecomforts which are ordinarily so important to them. For themselvesalone women seldom care to exercise much trouble in this direction; butthe presence of a man at once excuses and renders necessary theceremony of a dinner. So Clara prepared for the arrival, and greetedthe corner with some returning pleasantness of manner. And he, too, waspleasant with her, telling her of his plans, and speaking to her asthough she were one of those whom it was natural that he shouldendeavour to interest in his future welfare.

'When I come back tomorrow,' he said, 'the will must be opened andread. It had better be done here.' They were sitting over the fire inthe dining-room, after dinner, and Clara knew that the coming back towhich he alluded was his return from the funeral. But she made noanswer to this, as she wished to say nothing about her aunt's will.'And after that,' he continued, 'you had better let me take you out.'

'I am very well,' she said. 'I do not want any special taking out.'

'But you have been confined to the house a whole week.'

'Women are accustomed to that, and do not feel it as you would.However, I will walk with you if you'll take me.'

'Of course I'll take you. And then we must settle our future plans.Have you fixed upon any day yet for returning? Of course, the longeryou stay, the kinder you will be.'

'I can do no good to any one by staying.'

'You do good to me but I suppose I'm nobody. I wish I could tell whatto do about this house. Dear, good old woman! I know she would havewished that I should keep it in my own hands, with some idea of livinghere at some future time but of course I shall never live here.'

'Why not?'

'Would you like it yourself?'

'I am not Member of Parliament for Perivale, and should not be theleading person in the town. You would be a sort of king here; and then,some day, you will have your mother's property as well as your aunt's;and you would be near to your own tenants.'

'But that does not answer my question. Could you bring yourself to livehere even if it were your own?'

'Why not?'

'Because it is so deadly dull because it has no attraction whateverbecause of all lives it is the one you would like the least. No oneshould live in a provincial town but they who make their money by doingso.'

'And what are the wives and daughters of such people to do andespecially their widows? I have no doubt I could live here very happilyif I had anybody near me that I liked. I should not wish to have todepend altogether on Mr Possitt for society.'

'And you would find him about the best.'

'Mr Possitt has been with me twice whilst you were away, and he, too,asked what you meant to do about the house.'

'And what did you say?'

'What could I say? Of course I said I did not know. I suppose he wasmeditating whether you would live here and ask him to dinner onSundays!'

'Mr Possitt is a very good sort of man,' said the captain, gravely forCaptain Aylmer, in the carrying out of his principles, always spokeseriously of everything connected with the Church in Perivale.

'And quite worthy to be asked to dinner on Sundays,' said Clara. 'But Idid not give him any hope. How could I? Of course I knew that you wouldnot live here, though I did not tell him so.'

'No; I don't suppose I shall. But I see very plainly that you think Iought to do so.'

'I've the old-fashioned idea as to a man's living near to his ownproperty; that is all. No doubt it was good for other people inPerivale, besides Mr Possitt, that my dear aunt lived here; and if thehouse is shut up, or let to some stranger, they will feel her loss themore. But I don't know that you are bound to sacrifice yourself tothem.'

'If I were to marry,' said Captain Aylmer, very slowly and in a lowvoice, 'of course I should have to think of my wife's wishes.'

'But if your wife, when she accepted you, knew that you were livinghere, she would hardly take upon herself to demand that you should giveup your residence.'

'She might find it very dull.'

'She would make her own calculations as to that before she acceptedyou.'

'No doubt but I can't fancy any woman taking a man who was tied by hisleg to Perivale. What do people do who live in Perivale?'

'Earn their bread.'

'Yes that's just what I said. But I shouldn't earn mine here.'

'I have the feeling I spoke of very strongly about papa's place,' saidClara, changing the conversation suddenly. 'I very often think of thefuture fate of Belton Castle when papa shall have gone. My cousin hasgot his house at Plaistow, and I don't suppose he'd live there.'

'And where will you go?' he asked.

As soon as she had spoken, Clara regretted her own imprudence in havingventured to speak upon her own affairs. She had been well pleased tohear him talk of his plans, and had been quite resolved not to talk ofher own. But now, by her own speech, she had sot him to make inquiriesas to her future life. She did not at first answer the question; but herepeated it. 'And where will you live yourself?'

'I hope I may not have to think of that for some time to come yet.'

'It is impossible to help thinking of such things.'

'I can assure you that I haven't thought about it; but I suppose Ishall endeavour to to I don't know what I shall endeavour to do.'

'Will you come and live at Perivale?'

'Why here more than anywhere else?

'In this house I mean.'

'That would suit me admirably would it not? I'm afraid Mr Possitt wouldnot find me a good neighbour. To tell the truth, I think that any ladywho lives here alone ought to be older than I am. The Penvalians wouldnot show to a young woman that sort of respect which they have alwaysfelt for this house.'

'I didn't mean alone,' said Captain Aylmer.

Then Clara got up and made some excuse for leaving him, and there wasnothing more said between them nothing, at least, of moment, on thatevening. She had become uneasy when he asked her whether she would liketo live in his house at Perivale. But afterwards, when he suggestedthat she was to have some companion with her there, she felt herselfcompelled to put an end to the conversation. And yet she knew that thiswas always the way, both with him and with herself. He would say thingswhich would seem to promise that in another minute he would be at herfeet, and then he would go no farther. And she, when she heard thosewords though in truth size would have had him at her feet if she couldwould draw away, and recede, and forbid him as it were to go on. ButClara continued to make her comparisons, and knew well that her cousinWill would have gone on in spite of any such forbiddings.

On that night, however, when she was alone, she could console herselfwith thinking how right she had been. In that front bedroom, the doorof which was opposite to her own, with closed shutters, in the terriblesolemnity of lifeless humanity, was still lying the body of her aunt!What would she have thought of herself if at such a moment she couldhave listened to words of love, and promised herself as a wife whilesuch an inmate was in the house? She little knew that he, within thatsame room, had pledged himself, to her who was now lying there waitingfor her last removal had pledged himself, just seven days since, tomake the offer which, when he was talking to her, she was always halfhoping and half fearing!

He could have meant nothing else when he told her that he had notintended to suggest that she should live there alone in that greathouse at Perivale. She could not hinder herself from thinking of this,unfit as was the present moment for any such thoughts. How was itpossible that she should not speculate on the subject, let herresolutions against any such speculation be ever so strong? She hadconfessed to herself that she loved the man, and what else could shewish but that he also should love her? But there came upon her somefaint suspicion some glimpse of what was almost a dream that he mightpossibly in this matter be guided rather by duty than by love. It mightbe that he would feel himself constrained to offer his hand to herconstrained by the peculiarity of his position towards her. If soshould she discover that such were his motives there would be no doubtas to the nature of her answer.

CHAPTER X

SHOWING HOW CAPTAIN AYLMER KEPT HIS PROMISE

The next day was necessarily very sad. Clara had declared herdetermination to follow her aunt to the churchyard, and did so,together with Martha, the old servant. There were three or fourmourning coaches, as family friends came over from Taunton, one or twoof whom were to be present at the reading of the will. How melancholywas the occasion, and how well the work was done; how substantial andyet how solemn was the luncheon, spread after the funeral for thegentlemen; and how the will was read, without a word of remark, by MrPalmer, need hardly be told here. The will contained certainsubstantial legacies to servants the amount to that old handmaid Marthabeing so great as to produce a fit of fainting, after which the oldhandmaid declared that if ever there was, by any chance, an angel oflight upon the earth, it was her late mistress; and yet Martha had hadher troubles with her mistress; and there was a legacy of two hundredpounds to the gentleman who was called upon to act as co-executor withCaptain Aylmer. Other clause in the will there was none, except thatone substantial clause which bequeathed to her well-beloved nephew,Frederic Folliott Aylmer, everything of which the testatrix diedpossessed. The will had been made at some moment in which Clara'sspirit of independence had offended her aunt, and her name was notmentioned. That nothing should have been left to Clara was the onething that surprised the relatives from Taunton who were present. Therelatives from Taunton, to give them their due, expected nothing forthemselves; but as there had been great doubt as to the proportions inwhich the property would be divided between the nephew and adoptedniece, there was aroused a considerable excitement as to the omissionof the name of Miss Amedroz an excitement which was not altogetherunpleasant. When people complain of some cruel shame, which does notaffect themselves personally, the complaint is generally accompanied byan unexpressed and unconscious feeling of satisfaction.

On the present occasion, when the will had been read and refolded,Captain Aylmer, who was standing on the rug near the fire, spoke a fewwords. His aunt, he said, had desired to add a codicil to the will, ofthe nature of which Mr Palmer was well aware. She had expressed herintention to leave fifteen hundred pounds to her niece, Miss Amedroz;but death had come upon her too quickly to enable her to perform herpurpose. Of this intention on the part of Mrs Winterfield, Mr Palmerwas as well aware as himself; and he mentioned the subject now, merelywith the object of saying that, as a matter of course, the legacy toMiss Amedroz was as good as though the codicil had been completed. Onsuch a question as that there could arise no question as to legalright; but he understood that the legal claim of Miss Amedroz, undersuch circumstances, was as void as his own. It was therefore no affairof generosity on his part. Then there was a little buzz of satisfactionon the part of those present, and the meeting was broken up.

A certain old Mrs. Folliott, who was cousin to everybody concerned, hadcome over from Taunton to see how things were going. She had alwaysbeen at variance with Mrs Winterfield, being a woman who loved cardsand supper parties, and who had throughout her life stabled her horsesin stalls very different to those used by the lady of Perivale. Nowthis Mrs Folliott was the first to tell Clara of the will. Clara. ofcourse, was altogether indifferent. She had known for months past thather aunt had intended to leave nothing to her, and her only hope hadbeen that she might be left free from any commiseration or remark onthe subject. But Mrs Folliott, with sundry shakings of the head, toldher how her aunt had omitted to name her and then told her also ofCaptain Aylmer's generosity. 'We all did think, my dear,' said MrsFolliott, 'that she would have done better than that for you, or at anyrate that she would not have left you dependent on him.' CaptainAylmer's horses were also supposed to be stabled in strictly Low Churchstalls, and were therefore regarded by Mrs Folliott with much dislike.

'I and my aunt understood each other perfectly,' said Clara.

'I dare say. But if so, you really were the only person that didunderstand her. No doubt what she did was quite right, seeing that shewas a saint; but we sinners would have thought it very wicked to havemade such a will, and then to have trusted to the generosity of anotherperson after we were dead.'

'But there is no question of trusting to any one's generosity, MrsFolliott.'

'He need not pay you a shilling, you know, unless he likes it.'

'And he will not be asked to pay me a shilling.'

'I don't suppose he will go back after what he has said publicly.'

'My dear Mrs Folliott,' said Clara earnestly, 'pray do not let us talkabout it. it is quite unnecessary. I never expected any of my aunt'sproperty, and knew all along that it was to go to Captain Aylmer who,indeed, was Mrs Winterfield's heir naturally. Mrs Winterfield was notreally my aunt, and I had no claim on her.'

'But everybody understood that she was to provide for you.'

'As I was not one of the everybodies myself, it will not signify.' ThenMrs Folliott retreated, having, as she thought, performed her duty toClara, and contented herself henceforth with abusing Mrs Winterfield'swill in her own social circles at Taunton.

On the evening of that day, when all the visitors were gone and thehouse was again quiet, Captain Aylmer thought it expedient to explainto Clara the nature of his aunt's will, and the manner in which shewould be allowed to inherit under it the amount of money which her aunthad intended to bequeath to her. When she became impatient and objectedto listen to him, he argued with her, pointing out to her that this wasa matter of business to which it was now absolutely necessary that sheshould attend. 'It may be the case,' he said, 'and, indeed, I hope itwill, that no essential difference will be made by it except that itwill gratify you to know how careful she was of your interests in herlast moments. But you are bound in duty to learn your own position; andI, as her executor, am bound to explain it to you. But perhaps youwould rather discuss it with Mr Palmer.'

'Oh no save me from that.'

'You must understand, then, that I shall pay over to you the sum offifteen hundred pounds as soon as the will has been proved.'

'I understand nothing of the kind. I know very well that if I were totake it, I should be accepting a present from you, and to that I cannotconsent.'

'But, Clara'

'It is no good, Captain Aylmer. Though I don't pretend to understandmuch about law, I do know that I can have no claim to anything that isnot put into the will; and I won't have what I could not claim. My mindis quite made up, and I hops I mayn't be annoyed about it. Nothing ismore disagreeable than having to discuss money matters.'

Perhaps Captain Aylmer thought that the having no money matters todiscuss might be even more disagreeable. 'Well,' he said, 'I can onlyask you to consult any friend whom you can trust upon the matter. Askyour father, or Mr Belton, and I have no doubt that either of them willtell you that you are as much entitled to the legacy as though it hadbeen written in the will.'

'On such a matter, Captain Aylmer, I don't want to ask anybody. Youcan't pay me the money unless I choose to take it, and I certainlyshall not do that.' Upon hearing this he smiled, assuming, as Clarafancied that he was sometimes wont to do, a look of quiet superiority;and then, for that time, he allowed the subject to be dropped betweenthem.

But Clara knew that she must discuss it at length with her father, andthe fear of that discussion made her unhappy. She had already writtento say that she would return home on the day but one after the funeral,and had told Captain Aylmer of her purpose. So very prudent a man as heof course could not think it right that a young lady should remain withhim, in his house, as his visitor; and to her decision on this point hehad made no objection. She now heartily wished that she had named theday after the funeral, and that she had not been deterred by herdislike of making a Sunday journey. She dreaded this day, and wouldhave been very thankful if he would have left her and gone back toLondon. But he intended, he said, to remain at Perivale throughout thenext week, and she must endure the day as best she might be able. Shewished that it were possible to ask Mr Possitt to his accustomeddinner; but she did not dare to make the proposition to the master ofthe house. Though Captain Aylmer had declared Mr Possitt to be a veryworthy man, Clara surmised that he would not be anxious to commencethat practice of a Sabbatical dinner so soon after his aunt's decease.The day, after all, would be but one day, and Clara schooled herselfinto a resolution to bear it with good humour.

Captain Aylmer had made a positive promise to his aunt on her deathbedthat he would ask Clara Amedroz to be his wife, and be had no more ideaof breaking his word than he had of resigning the whole property whichhad been left to him. Whether Clara would accept him he had much doubt.He was a man by no means brilliant, not naturally self-confident, norwas he, perhaps, to be credited with the possession of high principlesof the finest sort; but he was clever, in the ordinary sense of theword, knowing his own interest, knowing, too, that that interestdepended on other things besides money; and ha was a just man,according to the ordinary rules of justice in the world. Not for thefirst time, when he was sitting by the bedside of his dying aunt, hadhe thought of asking Clara to marry him. Though he had never hithertoresolved that he would do so though he had never till then broughthimself absolutely to determine that he would take so important a stephe had pondered over it often, and was aware that he was very fond ofClara. He was, in truth, as much in love with her as it was in hisnature to be in love. He was not a man to break his heart for a girlnor even to make a strong fight for a wife, as Belton was prepared todo. If refused once, he might probably ask again having some idea thata first refusal was not always intended to mean much and he mightpossibly make a third attempt, prompted by some further calculation ofthe same nature. But it might be doubted whether, on the first, second,or third occasion, he would throw much passion into his words; andthose who knew him well would hardly expect to see him die of a brokenheart, should he ultimately be unsuccessful.

When he had first thought of marrying Miss Amedroz he had imagined thatshe would have shared with him his aunt's property, and indeed such hadbeen his belief up to the days of the last illness of Mrs Winterfield.The match therefore had recommended itself to him as being prudent aswell as pleasant; and though his aunt had never hitherto pressed thematter upon him, he had understood what her wishes were. When she firsttold him, three or four days before her death, that her property wasleft altogether to him, and then, on hearing how totally her niece waswithout hope of provision from her father, had expressed her desire togive a sum of money to Clara, she had spoken plainly of her desire butshe had not on that occasion asked him for any promise. But afterwards,when she knew that she was dying, she had questioned him as to his ownfeelings, and he, in his anxiety to gratify her in her last wishes, hadgiven her the promise which she was so anxious to hear. He made nodifficulty in doing so. It was his own wish as well as hers. In a moneypoint of view he might no doubt now do better; but then money was noteverything. He was very fond of Clara, and felt that if she wouldaccept him he would be proud of his wife. She was well born and welleducated, and it was the proper sort of thing for him to do. No doubthe had some idea, seeing how things had now arranged themselves, thathe would be giving much more than he would get; and perhaps the mannerof his offer might be affected by that consideration; but not on thataccount did he feel at all sure that he would be accepted. ClaraAmedroz was a proud girl perhaps too proud. Indeed, it was her fault.If her pride now interfered with her future fortune in life, it shouldbe her fault, not his. He would do his duty to her and to his aunt hewould do it perseveringly and kindly; and then, if she refused him, thefault would not be his.

Such, I think, was the state of Captain Aylmer's mind when he got up onthe Sunday morning, resolving that he would on that day make good hispromise. And it must be remembered, on his behalf, that he would haveprepared himself for his task with more animation if he had hithertoreceived warmer encouragement. He had felt himself to be repulsed inthe little efforts which he had already made to please the lady, andhad no idea whatever as to the true state of her feelings. Had he knownwhat she knew, he would, I think, have been animated enough, and goneto his task as happy and thriving a lover as any. But he was a mansomewhat diffident of himself, though sufficiently conscious of thevalue of the worldly advantages which he possessed and he was, perhaps,a little afraid of Clara, giving her credit for an intellect superiorto his own.

He had promised to walk with her on the Saturday after the reading ofthe will, intending to take her out through the gardens down to a farm,now belonging to himself, which lay at the back of the town, and whichwas held by an old widow who had been senior in life to her latelandlady; but no such walk had been possible, as it was dark before thelast of the visitors from Taunton had gone. At breakfast on Sunday heagain proposed the walk, offering to take her immediately afterluncheon. 'I suppose you will not go to church?' he said.

'Not today. I could hardly bring myself to do it today.'

'I think you are right. I shall go. A man can always do these thingssooner than a lady can. But you will come out afterwards?' To this sheassented, and then she was left alone throughout the morning. The walkshe did not mind. That she and Captain Aylmer should walk together wasall very well. They might probably have done so had Mrs Winterfieldbeen still alive. It was the long evening afterwards that she dreadedthe long winter evening, in which she would have to sit with him as hisguest, and with him only. She could not pass these hours withouttalking to him, and she felt that she could not talk to him naturallyand easily. It would, however, be but for once, and she would bear it.

They went together down to the house of Mrs Partridge, the tenant, andmade their kindly speeches to the old woman. Mrs Partridge already knewthat Captain Aylmer was to be her landlord, but having hitherto seenmore of Miss Amedroz than of the captain, and having always regardedher landlady's niece as being connected irrevocably with the property,she addressed them as though the estate were a joint affair.

'I shan't be here to trouble you long that I shan't, Miss Clara,' saidthe old woman.

'I am sure Captain Aylmer would be very sorry to lose you,' repliedClara, speaking loud, and close to the poor woman's ear, for she wasdeaf.

'I never looked to live after she was gone, Miss Clara never. No more Ididn't. Deary deary! And I suppose you'll be living at the big housenow; won't ye?'

'The big house belongs to Captain Aylmer, Mrs Partridge.' She wasdriven to bawl out her words, and by no means liked the task. ThenCaptain Aylmer said something, but his speech was altogether lost.

'Oh it belongs to the captain, do it? They told me that was the way ofthe will; but I suppose it's all one.'

'Yes; it's all one,' said Captain Aylmer, gaily.

'It's not exactly all one, as you call it,' said Clara, attempting tolaugh, but still shouting at the top of her voice.

'Ah I don't understand; but I hope you'll both live there together andI hope you'll be as good to the poor as she that is gone. Well, well; Ididn't ever think that I should be still here, while she is lying underthe stones up in the old church!'

Captain Aylmer had determined that he would ask his question on the wayback from the farm, and now resolved that he might as well begin withsome allusion to Mrs Partridge's words about the house. The afternoonwas bright and cold, and the lane down to the farmhouse had been driedby the wind, so that the day was pleasant for walking. 'We might aswell go on to the bridge,' he said, as they left the farmyard. 'Ialways think that Perivale church looks better from Creevy bridge thanany other point.' Perivale church stood high in the centre of the town,on an eminence, and was graced with a spire which was declared by thePerivalians to be preferable to that of Salisbury in proportion, thoughit was acknowledged to be somewhat inferior to it in height. The littleriver Creevy, which ran through a portion of the suburbs of the town,and which, as there seen, was hardly more than a ditch, then slopedaway behind Creevy Grange, as the farm of Mrs Partridge was called, andwas crossed by a small wooden bridge, from which there was a view, notonly of the church, but of all that side of the hill on which MrsWinterfield's large brick house stood conspicuously.

So they walked down to Creevy bridge, and, when there, stood leaning onthe parapet and looking back upon the town.

'How well I know every house and spot in the place as I see them fromhere,' he said.

'A good many of the houses are your own or will be some day; andtherefore you should know them.'

'I remember, when I used to be here as a boy fishing, I always thoughtAunt Winterfield's house was the biggest house in the county.'

'It can't be nearly so large as your father's house in Yorkshire.'

'No; certainly it is not. Aylmer Park is a large place; but the housedoes not stretch itself out so wide as that; nor does it stand on theside of a hill so as to show out its proportions with so muchostentation. The coach-house and the stables, and the old brewhouse,seem to come half way down the hill. And when I was a boy I had muchmore respect for my aunt's red-brick house in Perivale than I had forAylmer Park.'

'And now it's your own.'

'Yes; now it's my own and all my respect for it is gone. I used tothink the Creevy the best river in England for fish; but I wouldn'tgive a sixpence now for all the perch I ever caught in it.'

'Perhaps your taste for perch is gone also.'

'Yes; and my taste for jam. I never believed in the store-room atAylmer Park as I did in my aunt's store-room here.'

'I don't doubt but what it is full now.'

'I dare say; but I shall never have the curiosity even to inquire. Ah,dear I wish I knew what to do about the house.'

'You won't sell it, I suppose?'

'Not if I could either live in it, or let it. It would be wrong to letit stand idle.'

'But you need not decide quite at once.'

'That's just what I want to do. I want to decide at once.'

'Then I'm sure I cannot advise you. It seems to me very unlikely thatyou should come and live here by yourself. It isn't like acountry-house exactly.'

'I shan't live there by myself certainly. You heard what Mrs Partridgesaid just now.'

'What did Mrs Partridge say?'

'She wanted to know whether it belonged to both of us, and whether itwas not all one. Shall it be all one, Clara?'

She was leaning over the rail of the bridge as he spoke, with her eyesfixed on the slowly moving water. When she heard his words she raisedher face and looked full upon him. She was in some sort prepared forthe moment, though it would be untrue to say that she had now expectedit. Unconsciously she had made some resolve that if ever the questionwere put to her by him, she would not be taken altogether off herguard; and now that the question was put to her, she was able tomaintain her composure. Her first feeling was one of triumph as it mustbe in such a position to any woman who has already acknowledged toherself that she loves the man who then asks her to be his wife. Shelooked up into Captain Aylmer's face and his eye almost quailed beneathhers. Even should he be triumphant, he was not perfectly assured thathis triumph would be a success.

'Shall what be all one?' she asked.

'Shall it be in your house and my house? Can you tell me that you willlove me and be my wife?' Again she looked at him, and he repeated hisquestion. 'Clara, can you love me well enough to take me for yourhusband?'

'I can,' she said. Why should she hesitate, and play the coy girl, andpretend to any doubts in her mind which did not exist there? She didlove him, and had so told herself with much earnestness. To him, whilehis words had been doubtful while he had simply played at making loveto her, she had given no hint of the state of her affections. She hadso carried herself before him as to make him doubt whether successcould be possible for him. But now why should she hesitate now? It wasas she had hoped or as she bad hardly dared to hope. He did love her.'I can,' she said; and then, before he could speak again, she repeatedher words with more emphasis. 'Indeed I can; with all my heart.'

As regarded herself, she was quite equal to the occasion; but had sheknown more of the inner feelings of men and women in general, she wouldhave been slower to show her own. What is there that any man desiresany man or any woman that does not lose half its value when it is foundto be easy of access and easy of possession? Wine is valued by itsprice, not its flavour. Open your doors freely to Jones and Smith, andJones and Smith will not care to enter them. Shut your doors obduratelyagainst the same gentlemen, and they will use all their littlediplomacy to effect an entrance. Captain Aylmer, when he heard thehearty tone of the girl's answer, already began almost to doubt whetherit was wise on his part to devote the innermost bin of his cellar towine that was so cheap.

Not that he had any idea of receding. Principle, if not love, preventedthat. 'Then the question about the house is decided,' he said, givinghis hand to Clara as he spoke.

'I don't care a bit about the house now,' she answered.

'That's unkind.'

'I am thinking so much more of you of you and of myself. What does anold house matter?'

'It's in very good repair,' said Captain Aylmer.

'You must not laugh at me,' she said; and in truth he was not laughingat her. 'What I mean is that anything about a house is indifferent tome now. It is as though I had got all that I want in the world. Is itwrong of me to say so?'

'Oh, dear, no not wrong at all. How can it be wrong?' He did not tellher that he also had got all he wanted; but his lack of enthusiasm inthis respect did not surprise her, or at first even vex her. She hadalways known him to be a man careful of his words knowing their valuenot speaking with hurried rashness as would her dear cousin Will. Andshe doubted whether, after all, such hurried words mean as much aswords which are slower and calmer. After all his heat in love andconsequent disappointment, Will Belton had left her apparently wellcontented. His fervour had been short-lived. She loved her cousindearly, and was so very glad that his fervour had been short-lived!

'When you asked me, I could but tell you the truth,' she said, smilingat him.

The truth is very well, but he would have liked it better had the truthcome to him by slower degrees. When his aunt had told him to marryClara Amedroz, he had been at once reconciled to the order by a feelingon his own part that the conquest of Clara would not be too facile. Shewas a woman of value, not to be snapped up easily or by any one. So hehad thought then; but he began to fancy now that he had been wrong inthat opinion.

The walk back to the house was not of itself very exciting, though toClara it was a short period of unalloyed bliss. No doubt had then comeupon her to cloud her happiness, and she was 'wrapped up in measurelesscontent.' It was well that they should both be silent at such a moment.Only yesterday had been buried their dear old friend the friend who hadbrought them together, and been so anxious for their future happiness!And Clara Amedroz was not a young girl, prone to jump out of her shoeswith elation because she had got a lover. She could be steadily happywithout many immediate words about her happiness. When they reached thehouse, and were once more together in the drawing-room, she again gavehim her hand, and was the first to speak. And you; are you contented?'she asked. Who does not know the smile of triumph with which a girlasks such a question at such a moment as that?

'Contented? well yes; I think I am,' he said.

But even those words did not move her to doubt. 'If you are,' shesaid,' I am. And now I will leave you till dinner, that you may thinkover what you have done.'

'I had thought about it before, you know,' he replied. Then he stoopedover her and kissed her. It was the first time he had done so; but hiskiss was as cold and proper as though they had been man and wife foryears! But it sufficed for her, and she went to her room as happy as aqueen.

CHAPTER XI

MISS AMEDROZ IS TOO CANDID BY HALE

Clara, when she left her accepted lover in the drawing-room and wentup to her own chamber, had two hours for consideration before she wouldsee him again and she had two hours for enjoyment. She was very happy.She thoroughly believed in the man who was to be her husband, feelingconfident that he possessed those qualities which she thought to bemost necessary for her married happiness. She had quizzed him at times,pretending to make it matter of accusation against him that his lifewas not in truth all that his aunt believed it to be but had it beenmore what Mrs Winterfield would have wished, it would have been less toClara's taste. She liked his position in the world; she liked thefeeling that he was a man of influence; perhaps she liked to think thatto some extent he was a man of fashion. He was not handsome, but helooked always like a gentleman. He was well educated, given to reading,prudent, steady in his habits, a man likely to rise in the world; andshe loved him. I fear the reader by this time may have begun to thinkthat her love should never have been given to such a man. To thisaccusation I will make no plea at present, but I will ask thecomplainant whether such men are not always loved. Much is said of therashness of women in giving away their hearts wildly; but the chargewhen made generally is, I think, an unjust one. I am more oftenastonished by the prudence of girls than by their recklessness. A womanof thirty will often love well and not wisely; but the girls of twentyseem to me to like propriety of demeanour, decency of outward life, anda competence. It is, of course, good that it should be so; but if it isso, they should not also claim a general character for generous andpassionate indiscretion, asserting as their motto that Love shall stillbe Lord of All. Clara was more than twenty; but she was not yet so faradvanced in age as to have lost her taste for decency of demeanour andpropriety of life. A Member of Parliament, with a small house nearEaton Square, with a moderate income, and a liking for committees, whowould write a pamphlet once every two years, and read Dante criticallyduring the recess, was, to her, the model for a husband. For such a oneshe would read his blue books, copy his pamphlets, and learn histranslations by heart. She would be safe in the hands of such a man,and would know nothing of the miseries which her brother badencountered. Her model may not appear, when thus described, to be avery noble one; but I think it is the model most approved among ladiesof her class in England.

She made up her mind on various points during those two hours ofsolitude. In the first place, she would of course keep her purpose ofreturning home on the following day. It was not probable that CaptainAylmer would ask her to change it; but let him ask ever so much it mustnot be changed. She must at once have the pleasure of telling herfather that all his trouble about her would now be over; and then,there was the consideration that her further sojourn in the house, withCaptain Aylmer as her lover, would hardly be more proper than it wouldhave been bad he not occupied that position. And what was she to say ifhe pressed her as to the time of their marriage? Her aunt's death wouldof course be a sufficient reason why it should be delayed for some fewmonths; and, upon the whole, she thought it would be best to postponeit till the next session of Parliament should have nearly expired. Butshe would be prepared to yield to Captain Aylmer, should he name anytime after Easter. It was clearly his intention to keep up the house inPerivale as his country residence. She did not like Perivale or thehouse, but she would say nothing against such am arrangement. Indeed,with what face could she do so? She was going to bring nothing to thecommon account absolutely nothing but herself! As she thought of thisher love grew warmer, and she hardly knew how sufficiently to testifyto herself her own gratitude and affection.

She became conscious, as she was preparing herself for dinner, of somespecial attention to her toilet. She was more than ordinarily carefulwith her hair, and felt herself to be aware of an anxiety to look herbest. She had now been for some time so accustomed to dress herself inblack, that in that respect her aunt's death had made no difference toher. Deep mourning had ceased from habit to impress her with anyspecial feeling of funereal solemnity. But something about herself, orin the room, at last struck her with awe, bidding her remember howdeath had of late been busy among those who had been her dearest andnearest friends; and she sat down, almost frightened at her ownheartlessness, in that she was allowing herself to be happy at such atime. Her aunt had been carried away to her grave only yesterday, andher brother's death had occurred under circumstances of peculiardistress within the year and yet she was happy, triumphant almost lostin the joy of her own position! She remained for a while in her chair,with her black dress hanging across her lap, as she argued with herselfas to her own state of mind. Was it a sign of a hard heart within her,that she could be happy at such a time? Ought the memory of her poorbrother to have such an effect upon her as to make any joy of spiritsimpossible to her? Should she at the present moment be so crushed byher aunt's demise, as to be incapable of congratulating herself uponher own success? Should she have told him, when he asked her thatquestion upon the bridge, that there could be no marrying or giving inmarriage between them, no talking on such a subject in days so full ofsorrow as these? I do not know that she quite succeeded in recognizingit as a truth that sorrow should be allowed to bar out no joy that itdoes not bar out of absolute necessity by its own weight, withoutreference to conventional ideas; that sorrow should never, under anycircumstances, be nursed into activity, as though it were a thing initself divine or praiseworthy. I do not know that she followed out herarguments till she had taught herself that it is the Love that isdivine the Love which, when outraged by death or other severance,produces that sorrow which man would control if he were strong enough,but which he cannot control by reason of the weakness of his humanity.I doubt whether so much as this made itself plain to her, as she satthere before her toilet table, with her sombre dress hanging from herhands on to the ground. But something of the strength of such reasoningwas hers. Knowing herself to be full of joy, she would not struggle tomake herself believe that it behoved her to be unhappy. She toldherself that she was doing what was good for others as well as forherself what would be very good for her father, and what should begood, if it might be within her power to make it so, for him who was tobe her husband. The blackness of the cloud of her brother's death wouldnever altogether pass away from her. It had tended, as she knew well,to make her serious, grave, and old, in spite of her own efforts to thecontrary. The cloud had been so black with her that it had nearly lostfor her the prize which was now her own. But she told herself that thatblackness was an injury to her, and not a benefit, and that it had nowbecome a duty to her for his sake, if not for her own to dispel itsshadows rather than encourage them. She would go down to him full ofjoy, though not full of mirth, and would confess to him frankly, thatin receiving the assurance of his love, she had received everythingthat had seemed to have any value for her in the world.

Hitherto she had been independent she had specially been careful toshow to him her resolve to be independent of him. Now she would putaside all that, and let him know that she recognized in him her lordand master as well as husband. To her father had been left no strengthon which she could lean, and she had been forced therefore to trust toher own strength. Now she would be dependent on him who was to be herhusband. As heretofore she had rejected his offers of assistance almostwith disdain, so now would she accept them without scruple, looking tohim to be her guide in all things, putting from her that carping spiritin which she had been wont to judge of his actions, and believing inhim as a wife should believe in her husband.

Such were the resolutions which Clara made in the first hour ofsolitude which came to her after her engagement; and they would havebeen wise resolutions but for this flaw that the stronger wassubmitting itself to the weaker, the greater to the less, the morehonest to the less honest, that which was nearly true to that which wasin great part false. The theory of man and wife that special theory inaccordance with which the wife is to bend herself in loving submissionbefore her husband is very beautiful; and would be good altogether ifit could only be arranged that the husband should be the stronger andthe greater of the two. The theory is based upon that hypothesis andthe hypothesis sometimes fails of confirmation. In ordinary marriagesthe vessel rights itself, and the stronger and the greater takes thelead, whether clothed in petticoats, or in coat, waistcoat, andtrousers; but there sometimes comes a terrible shipwreck, when thewoman before marriage has filled herself full with ideas of submission,and then finds that her golden. headed god has got an iron body andfeet of clay.

Captain Aylmer, when he was left alone, had also something to thinkabout; and as there were two hours left for such thought before hewould again meet Clara, and as he had nothing else with which to occupyhimself during those two hours, he again strolled down to the bridge onwhich be had made his offer. He strolled down there, thinking that hewas thinking, but hardly giving much mind to his thoughts, which heallowed to run away with themselves as they listed. Of course he wasgoing to be married. That was a thing settled. And he was perfectlysatisfied with himself in that he had done nothing in a hurry, andcould accuse himself of no folly even if he had no great cause fortriumph. He had been long thinking that he should like to have ClaraAmedroz for his wife long thinking that he would ask her to marry him;and having for months indulged such thoughts, he could not take blameto himself for having made to his aunt that deathbed promise which shehad exacted. At the moment in which she asked him the question he washimself anxious to do the thing she desired of him. How then could behave refused her? And, having given the promise, it was a matter ofcourse with him to fulfil it. He was a man who would have neverrespected himself again would have hated himself for ever, had hefailed to keep a promise from which no living being could absolve him.He had been right therefore to make the promise, and having made it,had been right to keep it, and to do the thing at once. And Clara wasvery good and very wise, and sometimes looked very well, and wouldnever disgrace him; and as she was in worldly matters to receive muchand give nothing, she would probably be willing to make herselfamenable to any arrangements as to their future mode of life which hemight propose. In respect of this matter he was probably thinking oflodgings for himself in London during the parliamentary session, whileshe remained alone in the big red house upon which his eyes were fixedat the time. There was much of convenience in all this, which mightperhaps atone to him for the sacrifice which he was undoubtedly makingof himself. Had marriage simply been of itself a thing desirable, hecould doubtless have disposed of himself to better advantage. Hisprospects, present fortune, and general position were so favourable,that he might have dared to lift his expectations, in regard both towealth and rank, very high. The Aylmers were a considerable people, andhe, though a younger brother, bad much more than a younger brother'sportion. His seat in Parliament was safe; his position in society wasexcellent and secure; he was exactly so placed that marriage with afortune was the only thing wanting to put the finishing coping-stone tohis edifice that, and perhaps also the useful glory of having some LadyMary or Lady Emily at the top of his table. Lady Emily Aylmer? Yes itwould have sounded better, and there was a certain Lady Emily who mighthave suited. Now, as some slight regrets stole upon him gently, hefailed to remember that this Lady Emily had not a shilling in the world.

Yes; some faint regrets did steal upon him, though he went on tellinghimself that he had acted rightly. His stars, which were generally verygood to him, had not perhaps on this occasion been as good as usual. Nodoubt he had to a certain degree become encumbered with Clara Amedroz.Had not the direct and immediate leap with which she had come into hisarms shown him somewhat too plainly that one word of his mouth tendingtowards matrimony had been regarded by her as being too valuable to belost? The fruit that falls easily from the tree, though it is ever thebest, is never valued by the gardener. Let him have well-nigh brokenhis neck in gathering it, unripe and crude, from the small topmostboughs of the branching tree, and the pippin will be esteemed by him asinvaluable. On that morning, as Captain Aylmer had walked home fromchurch, he had doubted much what would be Clara's answer to him. Thenthe pippin was at the end of the dangerous bough. Now it had fallen tohis feet, and he did not scruple to tell himself that it was his andalways might have been his as a matter of course. Well, the apple hadcome of a good kind, and, though there might be specks upon it, thoughit might not be fit for any special glory of show or pride of placeamong the dessert service, still it should be garnered and used, and nodoubt would be a very good apple for eating. Having so concluded,Captain Aylmer returned to the house, washed his hands, changed hisboots, and went down to the drawing-room just as dinner was ready.

She came up to him almost radiant with joy, and put her hand upon hisarm. 'Martha did not know but what you were here,' she said, 'and toldthem to put dinner on the table.'

'I hope I have not kept you waiting.'

'Oh, dear, no. And what if you did? Ladies never care about thingsgetting cold. It is gentlemen only who have feelings in such matters asthat.'

'I don't know that there is much difference; but, however ' Then theywere in the dining-room, and as the servant remained there duringdinner, there was nothing in their conversation worth repeating. Afterdinner they still remained down-stairs, seating themselves on the twosides of the fire, Clara having fully resolved that she would not onsuch an evening as this leave Captain Aylmer to drink his glass of portwine by himself.

'I suppose I may stay with you, mayn't I?' she said.

'Oh, dear, yes; I'm sure I'm very much obliged. I'm not at all weddedto solitude.' Then there was a slight pause.

'That's lucky,' she said 'as you have made up your mind to be wedded inanother sort of way.' Her voice as she spoke was very low, but therewas a gentle ring of restrained joyousness in it which ought to havegone at once to his heart and made him supremely blessed for the time.

'Well yes,' he answered. 'We are in for it now, both of us are we not?I hope you have no misgivings about it, Clara.'

'Who? I? I have misgivings! No, indeed. I have no misgivings, Frederic;no doubts, no scruples, no alloy in my happiness. With me it is all asI would have it be. Ah; you haven't understood why it has been that Ihave seemed to be harsh to you when we have met.'

'No, I have not,' said he. This was true; but it is true also that itwould have been well that he should be kept in his ignorance. She wasminded, however, to tell him everything, and therefore she went on.

'I don't know how to tell you; and yet, circumstanced as we are now, itseems that I ought to tell you everything.'

'Yes, certainly; I think that,' said Aylmer. He was one of those menwho consider themselves entitled to see, hear, and know every littledetail of a woman's conduct, as a consequence of the circumstances ofhis engagement, and who consider themselves shorn of their privilege ifanything be kept back. If any gentleman had said a soft word to Claraeight years ago, that soft word ought to be repeated to him now. lamafraid that these particular gentlemen sometimes hear some fibs; and Ioften wonder that their own early passages in the tournays of love donot warn them that it must be so. When James has sat deliciouslythrough all the moonlit night with his arm round Mary's waist andafterwards sees Mary led to the altar by John, does it not occur to himthat some John may have also sat with his arm round Anna's waist thatAnna whom he is leading to the altar? These things should not beinquired into too curiously; but the curiosity of some men on suchmatters has no end. For the most part, women like telling only they donot choose to be pressed beyond their own modes of utterance. 'I shouldlike to know that I have your full confidence,' said he.

'You have got my full confidence,' she replied.

'I mean that you should tell me anything that there is to be told.'

'It was only this, that I had learned to love you before I thought thatmy love would be returned.'

'Oh was that it?' said Captain Aylmer, in a tone which seemed to implysomething like disappointment.

'Yes. Fred; that was It. And how could I, under such circumstances,trust myself to be gentle with you, or to look to you for assistance?How could I guess then all that I know now?'

'Of course you couldn't.'

'And therefore I was driven to be harsh. My aunt used to speak to meabout it.'

'I don't wonder at that, for she was very anxious that we should bemarried.'

Clara for a moment felt herself to be uncomfortable as she heard thesewords, half perceiving that they implied some instigation on the partof Mrs Winterfield. Could it be that Captain Aylmer's offer had beenmade in obedience to a promise? 'Did you know of her anxiety?' sheasked.

'Well yes; that is to say, I guessed it. It was natural enough that thesame idea should come to her and to me too. Of course, seeing us somuch thrown together, she could not but think of our being married as achance upon the cards.'

'She used to tell me that I was harsh to you abrupt, she called it. Butwhat could I do? I'll tell you, Fred, how I first found out that Ireally cared for you. What I tell you now is of course a secret; and Ishould speak of it to no one under any circumstances but those whichunite us two together. My Cousin Will, when he was at Belton, made mean offer.'

'He did, did he? You did not tell me that when you were saying allthose fine things in his praise in the railway carriage.'

Of course I did not. Why should I? I wasn't bound to tell you mysecrets then, sir.'

'But did he absolutely offer to you?'

'Is there anything so wonderful in that? But, wonderful or not, he did.'

'And you refused him?'

'I refused him certainly.'

'It wouldn't have been a bad match, if all that you say about hisproperty is true.'

'If you come to that, it would have been a very good match; and perhapsyou think I was silly to decline it?'

'I don't say that.'

'Papa thought so but, then, I couldn't tell papa the whole truth, as Ican tell it to you now, Captain Aylmer. I couldn't tell dear papa thatmy heart was not my own to give to my Cousin Will; nor could I giveWill any such reason. Poor Will! I could only say to him bluntly that Iwouldn't have him.'

'And you would, if it hadn't been hadn't been for me.'

'Nay, Fred; there you tax me too far. What might have come of my heartif you hadn't fallen in my way, who can say? I love Will Belton dearly,and hope that you may do so'

'I must see him first.'

'Of course but, as I was saying, I doubt whether, under anycircumstances, he would have been the man I should have chosen for ahusband. But as it was it was impossible. Now you know it all, and Ithink that I have been very frank with you.'

'Oh! very frank.' He would not take her little jokes, nor understandher little prettinesses. That he was a man not prone to joking she knewwell, but still it went against the grain with her to find that be wasso very hard in his replies to her attempts.

It was not easy for Clara to carry on the conversation after this, soshe proposed that they should go upstairs into the drawing-room. Such achange even as that would throw them into a different way of talking,and prevent the necessity of any further immediate allusion to WillBelton. For Clara was aware, though she hardly knew why, that herfrankness to her future husband had hardly been successful, and sheregretted that she had on this occasion mentioned her cousin's name.They went upstairs and again sat themselves in chairs over the fire;but for a while conversation did not seem to come to them freely. Clarafelt that it was now Captain Aylmer's turn to begin, and Captain Aylmerfelt that he wished he could read the newspaper. He had nothing inparticular that he desired to say to his lady-love. That morning, as hewas shaving himself, he had something to say that was very particularas to which he was at that moment so nervous, that he had cut himselfslightly through the trembling of his hand. But that had now been said,and he was nervous no longer. That had now been said, and the thingsettled so easily, that he wondered at his own nervousness. He did notknow that there was anything that required much further immediatespeech. Clara had thought somewhat of the time which might be proposedfor their marriage, making some little resolves, with which the readeris already acquainted; but no ideas of this kind presented themselvesto Captain Aylmer. He had asked his cousin to be his wife, therebymaking good his promise to his aunt. There could be no furthernecessity for pressing haste. Sufficient for the day is the evilthereof.

It is not to be supposed that the thriving lover actually spoke tohimself in such language as that or that he confessed to himself thatClara Amedroz was an evil to him rather than a blessing. But hisfeelings were already so far tending in that direction, that he was byno means disposed to make any further promise, or to engage himself incloser connexion with matrimony by the mention of any special day.Clara, finding that her companion would not talk without encouragementfrom her, had to begin again, and asked all those natural questionsabout his family, his brother, his sister, his home habits, and the oldhouse in Yorkshire, the answers to which must be so full of interest toher. But even on these subjects he was dry, and in-disposed to answerwith the full copiousness of free communication which she desired. Andat last there came a question and an answer a word or two on one side,and then a word or two on the other, from which Clara got a wound whichwas very sore to her.

'I have always pictured to myself,' she said 'your mother as a womanwho has been very handsome.'

'She is still a handsome woman, though she is over sixty.'

'Tall, I suppose?'

'Yes, tall, and with something of of what shall I say dignity, abouther.'

'She is not grand, I hope?'

'I don't know what you call grand.'

'Not grand in a bad sense I'm sure she is not that. But there are someladies who seem to stand so high above the level of ordinary females asto make us who are ordinary quite afraid of them.'

'My mother is certainly not ordinary,' said Captain Aylmer.

'And I am,' said Clara, laughing. 'I wonder what she'll say to me or,rather, what she will think of me.' Then there was a moment's silence,after which Clara, still laughing, went on. 'I see, Fred, that you havenot a word of encouragement to give me about your mother.'

'She is rather particular,' said Captain Aylmer.

Then Clara drew herself up, and ceased to laugh. She had called herselfordinary with that half- insincere depreciation of self which is commonto all of us when we speak of our own attributes, but which we by nomeans intend that they who hear us shall accept as strictly true, orshall re-echo as their own approved opinions. But in this instanceCaptain Aylmer, though he had not quite done that, had done almost asbad.

'Then I suppose I had better keep out of her way,' said Clara, by nomeans laughing as she spoke.

'Of course when we are married you must go and see her.'

'You do not, at any rate, promise me a very agreeable visit, Fred. ButI dare say I shall survive it. After all, it is you that I am to marry,and not your mother; and as long as you are not majestic to me, I neednot care for her majesty.'

'I don't know what you mean by majesty.'

'You must confess that you speak of her as of something very terrible.'

'I say that she is particular and so she is. And as my respect for heropinion is equal to my affection for her person, I hope that you willmake a great effort to gain her esteem.'

'I never make any efforts of that kind. If esteem doesn't come withoutefforts it isn't worth having.'

'There I disagree with you altogether but I especially disagree withyou as you are speaking about my mother, and about a lady who is tobecome your own mother-in-law. I trust that you will make such efforts,and that you will make them successfully. Lady Aylmer is not a womanwho will give you her heart at once, simply because you have become herson's wife. She will judge you by your own qualities and will notscruple to condemn you should she see cause.'

Then there was a longer silence, and Clara's heart was almost inrebellion even on this, the first day of her engagement. But shequelled her high spirit, and said no further word about Lady Aylmer.Nor did she speak again till she had enabled herself to smile as shespoke.

'Well, Fred,' she said, putting her hand upon his arm, 'I'll do mybest, and woman can do no more. And now I'll say good-night, for I mustpack for tomorrow's journey before I go to bed.' Then he kissed herwith a cold, chilling kiss and she left him for the night.

CHAPTER XII

MISS AMEDROZ RETURNS HOME

Clara was to start by a train leaving Perivale at eight on thefollowing morning, and therefore there was not much time forconversation before she went. During the night she had endeavoured soto school herself as to banish from her breast all feelings of angeragainst her lover, and of regret as regarded herself. Probably, as shetold herself, she had made more of what he had said than he hadintended that she should do; and then, was it not natural that heshould think much of his mother, and feel anxious as to the way inwhich she might receive his wife. As to that feeling of anger on herown part, she did get quit of it; but the regret was not to be soeasily removed. It was not only what Captain Aylmer had said about hismother that clung to her, doing much to quench her joy; but there hadbeen a coldness in his tone to her throughout the evening which sherecognized almost unconsciously, and which made her heart heavy inspite of the joy which she repeatedly told herself ought to be her own.And she also felt though she was not clearly aware that she did so thathis manner towards her had become less affectionate, less like that ofa lover, since the honest tale she had told him of her own early lovefor him. She should have been less honest, and more discreet; lessbold, and more like in her words to the ordinary run of women. She hadknown this as she was packing last night, and she told herself that itwas so as she was dressing on this her last morning at Perivale. Thatfrankness of hers had not been successful, and she regretted that shehad not imposed on herself some little reticence or even a little ofthat coy pretence of indifference which is so often used by ladies whenthey are wooed. She had been boldly honest, and had found her honestyto be bad policy. She thought, at least, that she had found its policyto be bad. Whether in truth it may not have been very good have beenthe best policy in the world tending to give her the first trueintimation which she had ever yet received of the real character of theman who was now so much to her that is altogether another question.

But it was clearly her duty to make the best of her presentcircumstances, and she went down-stairs with a smiling face and withpleasant words on her tongue. When she entered the breakfast-roomCaptain Aylmer was there; but Martha was there also, and her pleasantwords were received indifferently in the presence of the servant. Whenthe old woman was gone, Captain Aylmer assumed a grave face, and begana serious little speech which he had prepared. But he broke down in theutterance of it, and was saying things very different from what he hadintended before he had completed it.

'Clara,' he began, 'what occurred between us yesterday is a source ofgreat satisfaction to me.'

'I am glad of that, Frederick,' said she, trying to be a little lessserious than her lover.

'Of very great satisfaction,' he continued; 'and I cannot but thinkthat we were justified by the circumstances of our position inforgetting for a time the sad solemnity of the occasion. When Iremember that it was but the day before yesterday that I followed mydear old aunt to the grave, I am astonished to think that yesterday Ishould have made an offer of marriage.'

What could be the good of his talking in this strain? Clara, too, hadhad her own misgivings on the same subject little qualms of consciencethat had come to her as she remembered her old friend in the silentwatches of the night; but such thoughts were for the silent watches,and not for open expression in the broad daylight. But he had paused,and she must say something.

'One's excuse to oneself is this that she would have wished it so.'

'Exactly. She would have wished it. Indeed she did wish it, andtherefore ' He paused in what he was saying, and felt himself to be ondifficult ground. Her eye was full upon him, and she waited for amoment or two as though expecting that he would finish his words. Butas he did not go on, she finished them for him.

'And therefore you sacrificed your own feelings.' Her heart wasbecoming sore, and she was unable to restrain the utterance of hersarcasm.

'Just so,' said he; 'or, rather, not exactly that. I don't mean that Iam sacrificed; for, of course, as I have just now said, nothing asregards myself can be more satisfactory. But yesterday should have beena solemn day to us; and as it was not'

'I thought it very solemn.'

'What I mean is that I find an excuse in remembering that I was doingwhat she asked me to do.'

'What she asked you to do, Fred?'

'What I had promised, I mean.'

'What you had promised? I did not hear that before.' These last wordswere spoken in a very low voice, but they went direct to CaptainAylmer's ears.

'But you have heard me declare,' he said, 'that as regards myselfnothing could be more satisfactory.'

'Fred,' she said, 'listen to me for a moment. You and I engagedourselves to each other yesterday as man and wife.'

'Of course we did.'

'Listen to me, dear Fred. In doing that there was nothing in my mindunbefitting the sadness of the day. Even in death we must think oflife, and if it were well for you and me that we should be together itwould surely have been but a foolish ceremony between us to haveabstained from telling each other that it would be so because my aunthad died last week. But it may be, and I think it is the case, that thefeelings arising from her death have made us both too precipitate.'

'I don't understand how that can be.'

'You have been anxious to keep a promise made to her, withoutconsidering sufficiently whether in doing so you would secure your ownhappiness; and I'

'I don't know about you, but as regards myself I must be considered tobe the best judge.'

'And I have been too much in a hurry in believing that which I wishedto believe.'

'What do you mean by all this, Clara?'

'I mean that our engagement shall be at an end; not necessarily so foralways. But that as an engagement binding us both, it shall for thepresent cease to exist. You shall be again free'

'But I don't choose to be free.'

'When you think of it you will find it best that it should be so. Youhave performed your promise honestly, even though at a sacrifice toyourself. Luckily for you for both of us, I should say the full truthhas come out; and we can consider quietly what will be best for us todo, independently of that promise. We will part, therefore, as dearfriends but not as engaged to each other as man and wife.'

'But we are engaged, and I will not hear of its being broken.'

'A lady's word, Fred, is always the most potential before marriage; andyou must therefore yield to me in this matter. I am sure your judgmentwill approve of my decision when you think of it. There shall be noengagement between us. I shall consider myself quite free free to do asI please altogether; and you, of course, will be free also.'

'If you please, of course it must be so.'

'I do please, Fred.'

'And yesterday, then, is to go for nothing.'

'Not exactly. It cannot go for nothing with me. I told you too many ofmy secrets for that. But nothing that was done or said yesterday is tobe held as binding upon either of us.'

'And you made up your mind to that last night?'

'It is at any rate made up to that now. Come I shall have to go withoutmy breakfast if I do not eat it at once. Will you have your tea now, orwait and take it comfortably when I am gone?'

Captain Aylmer breakfasted with her, and took her to the station, andsaw her off with all possible courtesy and attention, and then hewalked back by himself to his own great house in Perivale. Not a wordmore had been said between him and Clara as to their engagement, and herecognized it as a fact that he was no longer bound to her as herfuture husband. Indeed, he had no power of not recognizing the fact, sodecided had been her language, and so imperious her manner It had beenof no avail that he had said that the engagement should stand. She hadtold him that her voice was to be the more potential, and he had feltthat it was so. Well might it not be best for him that it should be so?He had kept his promise to his aunt, and bad done all that lay in hispower to make Clara Amedroz his wife. If she chose to rebel against herown good fortune simply because he spoke to her a few words whichseemed to him to be fitting, might it not be well for him to take herat her word?

Such were his first thoughts; but as the day wore on with him,something more generous in his nature came to his aid, and somethingalso that was akin to real love. Now that she was no longer his own, heagain felt a desire to have her. Now that there would be againsomething to be done in winning her, he was again stirred by a man'sdesire to do that something. He ought not to have told her of thepromise. He was aware that what he had said on that point had beendropped by him accidentally, and that Clara's resolution after that hadnot been unnatural. He would, therefore, give her another chance, andresolved before he went to bed that night that he would allow afortnight to pass away, and would then write to her, renewing his offerwith all the strongest declarations of affection which he would beenabled to make.

Clara on her way home was not well satisfied with herself or with herposition. She had had great joy, during the few hours of joy which hadbeen hers, in thinking of the comfort which her news would give to herfather. He would be released from all further trouble on her account bythe tidings which she would convey to him by the tidings which she hadintended to convey to him. But now the story which she would have totell would by no means be comfortable. She would have to explain to himthat her aunt had left no provision for her, and that would be thebeginning and the end of her story. As for those conversations aboutthe fifteen hundred pounds of them she would say nothing. When shereflected on what had taken place between herself and Captain Aylmershe was more resolved than ever that she would not touch any portion ofthat money or of any money that should come from him. Nor would shetell her father anything of the marriage engagement which had been madeon one day and unmade on the next. Why should she add to his distressby showing him what good things might have been hers had she only hadthe wit to keep them? No; she would tell her father simply of the will,and then comfort him in his affliction as best she might.

As regarded her position with Captain Aylmer, the more she thought ofit the more sure she became that everything was over in that quarter.She had, indeed, told him that such need not necessarily be the casebut this she had done in her desire at the moment to mitigate theapparent authoritativeness of her own decision, rather than with anyidea of leaving the matter open for further consideration. She was surethat Captain Aylmer would be glad of a means of escape, and that hewould not again place himself in the jeopardy which the promise exactedfrom him by his aunt had made so nearly fatal to him. And for herself,though she still loved the man so loved him that she lay back in thecorner of her carriage weeping behind her veil as she thought of whatshe had lost still she would not take him, though he should again presshis suit upon her with all the ardour at his command. No, indeed. Noman should ever be made to regard her as a burden imposed upon him byan extorted promise! What! let a man sacrifice himself to a sense ofduty on her behalf! And then she repeated the odious words to herself,till she came to think that it had fallen from his lips and not fromher own.

In writing to her father from Perivale, she had merely told him of MrsWinterfield's death and of her own intended return. At the Tauntonstation she met the well-known old fly and the well-known old driver,and was taken home in the accustomed manner. As she drew nearer toBelton the sense of her distress became stronger and stronger, till atlast she almost feared to meet her father. What could she say to himwhen he should repeat to her, as be would be sure to do, hislamentation as to her future poverty?

On arriving at the house she learned that he was upstairs in hisbedroom. He had been ill, the servant said, and though he was not nowin bed, he had not come down-stairs. So she ran up to his room, andfinding him seated in an old arm-chair by the fire-side, knelt down athis feet, as she took his hand and asked him as to his health.

'What has Mrs Winterfield done for you in her will?' These were thefirst words he spoke to her.

'Never mind about wills now, papa. I want you to tell me of yourself.'

'Nonsense, Clara. Answer my question.'

'Oh, papa, I wish you would not think so much about money for me.'

'Not think about it? Why am I not to think about it? What else have Igot to think of? Tell me at once, Clara, what she has done. You oughtto have written to me directly the will was made known.'

There was no help for her, and the terrible word must be spoken. 'Shehas left her property to Captain Aylmer, papa; and I must say that Ithink she is right.'

'You do not mean everything?'

'She has provided for her servants.'

'And has made no provision for you?'

'No, papa.'

'Do you mean to tell me that she has left you nothing absolutelynothing?' The old man's manner was altogether altered as he asked thequestion; and there came over his face so unusual a look of energy ofthe energy of anger that Clara was frightened, and knew not how toanswer him with that tone of authority which she was accustomed to usewhen she found it necessary to exercise control over him. 'Do you meanto say that there is nothing nothing?' And as he repeated the questionhe pushed her away from his knees and stood up with an effort, leaningagainst the back of his chair.

'Dear papa, do not let this distress you.'

'But is it so? Is there in truth nothing?'

'Nothing, papa. Remember that she was not really my aunt.'

'Nonsense, child! nonsense! How can you talk such trash to me as that?And then you tell me not to distress myself! I am to know that you willbe a beggar in a year or two probably in a few months and that is notto distress me! She has been a wicked woman!'

'Oh, papa, do not say that.'

'A wicked woman. A very wicked woman. It is always so with those whopretend to be more religious than their neighbours. She has been a verywicked woman, alluring you into her house with false hopes.'

'No, papa no; I must contradict you. She had given me no grounds forsuch hope.'

'I say she had even though she may not have made a promise. I say shehad. Did not everybody think that you were to have her money?'

'I don't know what people may have thought. Nobody has had any right tothink about it at all.'

'That is nonsense, Clara. You know that I expected it that you expectedit yourself.'

'No no, no!'

'Clara how can you tell me that?'

'Papa, I knew that she intended to leave me nothing. She told me sowhen I was there in the spring.'

'She told you so?'

'Yes, papa. She told me that Frederic Aylmer was to have all herproperty. She explained to me everything that she meant to do, and Ithought that she was right.'

'And why was not I told when you came home?'

'Dear papa!'

'Dear papa, indeed. What is the meaning of dear papa? Why have I beendeceived?'

'What good could I do by telling you? You could not change it.'

'You have been very undutiful; and as for her, her wickedness andcruelty shock me shock me. They do, indeed. That she should have knownyour position, and had you with her always and then have made such awill as that! Quite heartless! She must have been quite heartless.'

Clara now began to find that she must in justice to her aunt's memorytell her father something more. And yet it would be very difficult totell him anything that would not bring greater affliction upon him, andwould not also lead her into deeper trouble. Should it come to passthat her aunt's intention with reference to the fifteen hundred poundswas mentioned, she would be subjected to an endless persecution as tothe duty of accepting that money from Captain Aylmer. But her presentfeelings would have made her much prefer to beg her bread upon theroads than accept her late lover's generosity. And then again, howcould she explain to her father Mrs Winterfield's mistake about her ownposition without seeming to accuse her father of having robbed her? Butnevertheless she must say something, as Mr Amedroz continued to applythat epithet of heartless to Mrs Winterfield, going on with it in a lowdroning tone, that was more injurious to Clara's ears than the firstfull energy of his anger.

'The truth is, papa,' Clara said at last, 'that when my aunt told meabout her will, she did not know but what I had some adequate provisionfrom my own family.'

'Oh, Clara!'

'That is the truth, papa for she explained the whole thing to me. Icould not tell her that she was mistaken, and thus ask for her money.'

'But she knew everything about that poor wretched boy.' And now thefather dropped back into his chair, and buried his face in his hands.

When he did this Clara again knelt at his feet. She felt that she hadbeen cruel, and that she had defended her aunt at the cost of her ownfather. She had, as it were, thrown in his teeth his own imprudence,and twitted him with the injuries which he had done to her. 'Papa,' shesaid, 'dear papa, do not think about it at all. What is the use? Afterall, money is not everything. I care nothing for money. If you willonly agree to banish the subject altogether, we shall be socomfortable.'

'How is it to be banished?'

'At any rate we need not speak of it. Why should we talk on a subjectwhich is simply uncomfortable, and which we cannot mend?'

'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!' And now he swayed himself backwards andforwards in his chair, bewailing his own condition and hers, and hispast imprudence, while the tears ran down his checks. She still kneltthere at his feet, looking up into his face with loving, beseechingeyes, praying him to be comforted, and declaring that all would stillbe well if he would only forget the subject, or, at any rate, cease tospeak of it. But still he went on wailing, complaining of his lot as achild complains, and refusing all consolation. 'Yes; I know,' said he,'it has all been my fault. But how could I help it? What was I to do?'

'Papa, nobody has said that anything was your fault; nobody has thoughtso.'

'I never spent anything on myself never, never; and yet and yet and yet!'

'Look at it with more courage, papa. After all, what harm will it be ifI should have to go out and earn my own bread like any other youngwoman? I am not afraid.'

At last he wept himself into an apathetic tranquillity, as though hehad at present no further power for any of the energy of grief; and sheleft him while she went about the house and learned how things had goneon during her absence. It seemed, from the tidings which the servantgave her, that he had been ill almost since she had been gone. He had,at any rate, chosen to take his meals in his own room, and as far aswas remembered, had not once left the house since she had been away. Hehad on two or three occasions spoken of Mr Belton, appearing to beanxious for his coming, and asking questions as to the cattle and thework that was still going on about the place; and Clara, when shereturned to his room, tried to interest him again about her cousin. Buthe had in truth been too much distressed by the ill news as to MrsWinterfield's will to be able to rally himself, and the evening thatwas spent up in his room was very comfortless to both of them. Clarahad her own sorrows to bear as well as her father's, and could take nopleasant look out into the world of her own circumstances. She hadgained her lover merely to lose him and had lost him undercircumstances that were very painful to her woman's feeling. Though hehad been for one night betrothed to her as her husband, he had neverloved her. He had asked her to be his wife simply in fulfilment of adeath-bed promise! The more she thought of it the more bitter did theidea of it become to her. And she could not also but think of hercousin. Poor Will! He, at any rate, had loved her, though his eagernessin love had been, as she told herself, but short-lived. As she thoughtof him, it seemed but the other day that he had been with her up on therock in the park but as she thought of Captain Aylmer, to whom she hadbecome engaged only yesterday, and from whom she had separated herselfonly that morning, she felt that an eternity of time had passed sinceshe had parted from him.

On the following day, a dull, dark, melancholy day, towards the end ofNovember, she went out to saunter about the park, leaving her fatherstill in his bedroom, and after a while made her way down to thecottage. She found Mrs Askerton as usual alone in the littledrawing-room, sitting near the window with a book in her hand; butClara knew at once that her friend had not been reading that she hadbeen sitting there looking out upon the clouds, with her mind fixedupon things far away. The general cheerfulness of this woman had oftenbeen cause of wonder to Clara, who knew how many of her hours werepassed in solitude; but there did occasionally come upon her periods ofmelancholy in which she was unable to act up to the settled rule of herlife, and in which she would confess that the days and weeks and monthswere too long for her.

'So you are back,' said Mrs Askerton, as soon as the first greeting wasover.

'Yes; I am back.'

'I supposed you would not stay there long after the funeral.'

'No; what good could I do?'

'And Captain Aylmer is still there, I suppose?'

'I left him at Perivale.'

There was a slight pause, as Mrs Askerton hesitated before she askedher next question. 'May I be told anything about the will?' she said.

'The weary will! If you knew how I hated the subject you would not askme. But you must not think I hate it because it has given me nothing.'

'Given you nothing?'

'Nothing ! But that does not make me hate it. It is the nature of thesubject that is so odious. I have now told you all everything thatthere is to be told, though we were to talk for a week. If you aregenerous you will not say another word about it.'

'But I am so sorry.'

'There that's it. You won't perceive that the expression of such sorrowis a personal injury to me. I don't want you to be sorry.'

'How am I to help it?'

'You need not express it. I don't come pitying you for supposedtroubles. You have plenty of money; but if you were so poor that youcould eat nothing but cold mutton, I shouldn't condole with you as tothe state of your larder. I should pretend to think that poultry andpiecrust were plentiful with you.'

'No, you wouldn't, dear not if I were as dear to you as you are to me.'

'Well, then, be sorry; and let there be an end of it. Remember how muchof all this I must of necessity have to go through with poor papa.'

'Ah, yes; I can believe that.'

'And he is so far from well. Of course you have not seen him since Ihave been gone.'

'No; we never see him unless he comes up to the gate there.' Then therewas another pause for a moment. And what about Captain Aylmer?' askedMrs Askerton.

'Well what about him?'

'He is the heir now?'

'Yes he is the heir.'

'And that is all?'

'Yes; that is all. What more should there be? The poor old house atPerivale will be shut up, I suppose.'

'I don't care about the old house much, as it is not to be your house.'

'No it is not to be my house certainly.'

'There were two ways in which it might have become yours.'

'Though there were ten ways, none of those ways have come my way,' saidClara.

'Of course I know that you are so close that though there were anythingto tell you would not tell it.'

'I think I would tell you anything that was proper to be told; but nowthere is nothing proper or improper.'

'Was it proper or improper when Mr Belton made an offer to you as Iknew he would do of course; as I told you that he would? Was that soimproper that it could not be told?'

Clara was aware that the tell-tale colour in her face at once took fromher the possibility of even pretending that the allegation was untrue,and that in any answer she might give she must acknowledge the fact. 'Ido not think,' she said, 'that it is considered fair to gentlemen totell such stories as that.'

'Then I can only say that the young ladies I have known are generallyvery unfair.'

'But who told you?'

'Who told me? My maid. Of course she got it from yours. Those thingsare always known.'

'Poor Will!'

'Poor Will, indeed. He is coming here again, I hear, almostimmediately, and it needn't be "poor Will" unless you like it. But asfor me, I am not going to be an advocate in his favour. I tell youfairly that I did not like what little I saw of poor Will.'

'I like him of all things.'

'You should teach him to be a little more courteous in his demeanour toladies; that is all. I will tell you something else, too, about poorWill but not now. Some other day I will tell you something of yourCousin Will.'

Clara did not care to ask any questions as to this something that wasto be told, and therefore took her leave and went away.

CHAPTER XIII

MR WILLIAM BELTON TAKES A WALK IN THE COUNTRY

Clara Amedroz had made one great mistake about her cousin, WillBelton, when she came to the conclusion that she might accept hisproffered friendship without any apprehension that the friend wouldbecome a lover; and she made another, equally great, when she convincedherself that his love had been as short-lived as it had been eager.Throughout his journey back to Plaistow, he bad thought of nothing elsebut his love, and had resolved to persevere, telling himself sometimesthat he might perhaps be successful, and feeling sure at other timesthat he would encounter renewed sorrow and permanent disappointment butequally resolved in either mood that he would persevere. Not topersevere in pursuit of any desired object let the object be what itmight was, to his thinking, unmanly, weak, and destructive ofself-respect. He would sometimes say of himself, joking with other men,that if he did not succeed in this or that thing, he could never speakto himself again. To no man did he talk of his love in such a strain asthis; but there was a woman to whom he spoke of it; and though he couldnot joke on such a matter, the purport of what he said showed the samefeeling. To be finally rejected, and to put up with such rejection,would make him almost contemptible in his own eyes.

This woman was his sister, Mary Belton. Something has been already saidof this lady, which the reader may perhaps remember. She was a year ortwo older than her brother, with whom she always lived, but she hadnone of those properties of youth which belonged to him in suchabundance. She was, indeed, a poor cripple, unable to walk beyond thelimits of her own garden, feeble in health, dwarfed in stature, robbedof all the ordinary enjoyments of life by physical deficiencies, whichmade even the task of living a burden to her. To eat was a pain, or atbest a trouble. Sleep would not comfort her in bed, and wearinessduring the day made it necessary that the hours passed in bed should bevery long. She was one of those whose lot in life drives us to marvelat the inequalities of human destiny, and to inquire curiously withinourselves whether future compensation is to be given.

It is said of those who are small and crooked-backed in their bodies,that their minds are equally cross-grained and their tempers asungainly as their stature. But no one had ever said this of MaryBelton. Her friends, indeed, were very few in number; but those whoknew her well loved her as they knew her, and there were three or fourpersons in the world who were ready at all times to swear that she wasfaultless. It was the great happiness of her life that among thosethree or four her own brother was the foremost. Will Belton's love forhis sister amounted almost to veneration, and his devotion to her wasso great, that in all the affairs of his life he was prepared to makeher comfort one of his first considerations. And she, knowing this, hadcome to fear that she might be an embargo on his prosperity, and astumbling-block in the way of his success. It had occurred to her thathe would have married earlier in life if she had not been, as it were,in his way; and she had threatened him playfully for she could beplayful that he would leave him if he did not soon bring a mistress toPlaistow Hall. 'I will go to uncle Robert,' she had said. Now uncleRobert was the clergyman in Lincolnshire of whom mention has been made,and he was among those two or three who believed in Mary Belton with animplicit faith as was also his wife. ' I will go to uncle Robert, Will,and then you will be driven to get a wife.'

'If my sister ever leaves my house, whether there be a wife in it ornot,' Will had answered, 'I will never put trust in any woman again.'

Plaistow Manor-house or Hall was a fine brick mansion, built in thelatter days of Tudor house architecture, with many gables and countlesshigh chimneys very picturesque to the eye, but not in all respectscomfortable as are the modern houses of the well-to-do squirearchy ofEngland. And, indeed, it was subject to certain objectionablecharacteristics which in some degree justified the scorn which MrAmedroz intended to throw upon it when he declared it to be afarm-house. The gardens belonging to it were large and excellent; butthey did not surround it, and allowed the farm appurtenances to comeclose up to it on two sides. The door which should have been the frontdoor, opening from the largest room in the house, which had been thehall and which was now the kitchen, led directly into the farm-yard.From the farther end of this farm-yard a magnificent avenue of elmsstretched across the home pasture down to a hedge which crossed it atthe bottom. That there had been a road through the rows of trees or, inother words, that there had in truth been an avenue to the house onthat side was, of course, certain. But now there was no vestige of suchroad, and the front entrance to Plaistow Hall was by a little pathacross the garden from a modern road which had been made to run cruellynear to the house. Such was Plaistow Hall, and such was its mistress.Of the master, the reader, I hope, already knows so much as to need nofurther description.

As Belton drove himself home from the railway station late on thatAugust night, he made up his mind that he would tell his sister all hisstory about Clara Amedroz. She had ever wished that he should marry,and now he had made his attempt. Little as had been her opportunity oflearning the ways of men and women from experience in society, she hadalways seemed to him to know exactly what every one should do in everyposition of life. And she would be tender with him, giving him comforteven if she could not give him hope. Moreover Mary might be trustedwith his secret; for Belton felt, as men always do feel, a greatrepugnance to have it supposed that his suit to a woman had beenrejected. Women, when they have loved in vain, often almost wish thattheir misfortune should be known. They love to talk about their woundsmystically telling their own tales under feigned names, and extractingsomething of a bitter sweetness out of the sadness of their ownromance. But a man, when he has been rejected rejected with a finalitythat is acknowledged by himself is unwilling to speak or hear a wordupon the subject, and would willingly wash the episode out from hisheart if it were possible.

But not on that his first night would he begin to speak of ClaraAmedroz. He would not let his sister believe that his heart was toofull of the subject to allow of his thinking of other matters. Mary wasstill up, waiting for him when he arrived, with tea, and cream, andfruit ready for him. 'Oh, Mary!' he said, 'why are you not in bed? Youknow that I would have come to you upstairs.' She excused herself,smiling, declaring that she could not deny herself the pleasure ofbeing with him for half an hour on his first return from his travels.'Of course I want to know what they are like,' she said.

'He is a nice-looking old man,' said Will 'and she is a nice-lookingyoung woman.'

'That is graphic and short, at any rate.'

'And he is weak and silly, but she is strong and and and'

'Not silly also, I hope?'

'Anything but that. I should say she is very clever.'

'I'm afraid you don't like her, Will.'

'Yes, I do.'

'Really?'

'Yes; really.'

'And did she take your coming well?'

'Very well. I think she is much obliged to me for going.'

'And Mr Amedroz?'

'He liked my coming too very much.'

'What after that cold letter?

'Yes, indeed. I shall explain it all by degrees. I have taken a leaseof all the land, and I'm to go back at Christmas; and as to the old